


Half Past Three

by Ryomou



Category: IT - Stephen King, The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Begging, Crossover, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryomou/pseuds/Ryomou
Summary: Ever since Stan's gotten a full-time job as an accountant, he’s come to value his sleep, but being roused by Boris at half past three in the morning is more than worth the dark circles and two extra cups of coffee in the morning.





	Half Past Three

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written smut in thirty million years.  
As always, inspired by Evanaissante, porcia_catonis, Beatles_and_Bellarke and SpicyWolfsbane. (Don't forget their Storis archive sputnikolibri on tumblr)  
Come scream about things with me @buttercupkaspbrak

Stan often goes weeks without seeing Boris, and he knows by now that it’s better not to ask where he is or who he’s with. He doesn’t like it—hates it even. But it’s one of the many things he’s come to accept. He’ll get phone calls, always from different numbers, many of them long distance, and usually that’s good enough. Boris will whisper him sweet nothings and forever promises down the line, voice heavy with need, and it makes Stan feel hot and always wanted.

It’s enough to keep him going until the man himself creeps into his apartment under the cover of night. He loves those nights.

Ever since he’s gotten a full-time job as an accountant, he’s come to value his sleep, but being roused by Boris at half past three in the morning is more than worth the dark circles and two extra cups of coffee in the morning. But on this night, when Stan feels the gentle touch of fingertips trailing up the line of his back, the clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s one o’clock exactly.

“You’re early,” Stan mutters, voice bleary with sleep.

“Complaining, _Kolibri_?” Boris walks his fingers from his spine to his shoulder, pulling until Stan rolls off his side so that the other man can hover above him.

“Only if you have your shoes on the bed.”

It was a mistake that had only been made once; Stan had kicked him out of the bedroom and made him sleep on the couch for getting dirt on the comforter. Boris had pouted for two days afterwards, feeling robbed of his usual welcome home.

“Me? Never.”

Stan chuckles and Boris grins innocently down at him, and he lifts a hand to trace a thumb along a prominent cheekbone. After all these years, he has only grown more beautiful. His wild mane of curls has been styled into something distinguished and more manageable, but he still has the same high brows and dancing eyes. Stanley loves those eyes.

He knows deep down that Boris has been into trouble, has been out doing something dangerous and most likely very illegal, but he can’t bring himself to care. Of course, he worries about Boris’s safety, and he wishes that he would stop, but not enough to end things with him. Never enough to end things with him.

Stan tangles his fingers in Boris’s hair and pulls him down for a kiss. He’s missed him. _Fuck_, he’s _missed _him. Very rarely is anything tender or chaste about their reunions, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when Boris immediately draws his lower lip between his teeth, giving it a sharp nip until Stan gasps, allowing him to dive into his open mouth. His tongue is hot, tracing along his teeth and the roof of his mouth, teasing his own tongue until it’s all Stan can feel and all he can taste, and he has to clench the hair between his fingers tightly in order to ground himself.

Boris groans at the sting of it and rips himself away to nip at his chin, drawing a line down to his neck with stinging bites and soft lips. He sucks at his pulse hard enough to bruise, and Stan doesn’t even care, because he’s suddenly so hard that it _hurts_ and he _wants_, _wants_, _wants_. He paws desperately at Boris’s shirt, a tasteful button down that he doesn’t take the time to admire because:

“Need this off.”

He barely recognizes his own voice. Boris obeys, unbuttoning the fabric with startling efficiency and tossing it aside. Stanley doesn’t even have the urge to fold it.

“You too, _Kolibri_, let me see you.”

Stan rips off his nightshirt like it’s personally offended him, and Boris’s mouth immediately descends on his collarbones, nipping and sucking, leaving an array of faded pinks and reds and purples behind. Clever hands come up to rub at his chest, and when a nail catches on his nipple, Stanley keens, hips bucking off the mattress.

Boris rises, chasing the sound back to his lips, dipping his tongue between the seam as if to lick the noise out of him.

“Missed this sweet mouth,” he murmurs. Stan’s entire body is burning. He wants to touch—wants to be touched, and he vents his frustration by raking his nails down Boris’s back. The man groans in return, pressing his growing hardness against Stan’s hip.

“Use your words, _Kolibri_.”

“Touch me…” Stan begs.

“Am I not touching you?” Boris teases, scraping over his chest once again. Stan whines.

“Please…_Borya_, please.”

It’s rare for Stan to pull the name out this early, but he’s _desperate_. And it works exactly like he wants it to. Boris gasps, just a tiny hitch of air, before grabbing the comforter from around Stan’s legs and ripping it away in a flurry of movement.

“Off,” he demands, moving towards the end of the bed. Stan misses the warmth of his body immediately, wishes he could have everything at once—Boris on him, touching him, inside of him. With a whine, he wriggles out of his pajama bottoms and briefs, kicking them away as soon as they’re at his ankles.

Boris jerks his knees apart with both of his hands so that he can settle between his legs, drinking in the sight of him splayed open under the lamp light, erection curved upward towards his stomach.

He dips down to lick at the sensitive skin of Stan’s inner thigh. The man nearly wails under the attention. Weeks without Boris have left him touch starved and frantic with need, and every caress feels like lightening, every kiss like fire.

“Please, please, please, please…” he doesn’t even notice the words falling from him like a prayer until Boris asks:

“Please what, _Kolibri_?” He bites hard enough to sting, and Stan’s hips arch up again, but Boris swings an arm over to pin them down to the mattress. “Tell me what you want.”

Stan doesn’t know how to answer because he wants so much; he wants his hands, and his mouth, and his fingers, and his tongue, and his cock. He wants Boris. All of him, entirely and completely. Boris’s free hand travels to the base of him, giving a firm and not at all helpful stroke. Stanley’s toes curl.

“Use me!”

It bursts out of him as pleasure races up his spine, as goosebumps break out along his skin and his eyes roll back in ecstasy. All from such a simple touch. All from Boris. Only Boris.

The hand around him tightens.

It’s rare for Stanley to let go in this way, to entirely give up control, but tonight he wants it. He _needs _it.

“You say stop, and we stop,” Boris says.

Stan frantically nods his confirmation.

“Good boy.”

He replaces his hand with his mouth and Stanley almost _screams_. There are no teasing licks or careful sucks, just the white-hot heat of Boris’s throat as he takes him all the way down, bobbing his head, hard and fast. He’s scrambling at Boris’s hair, not sure if he wants to pull him closer or push him off, because it’s _so much, too much_ and he’s already getting _close_.

“_Borya_,” he pleads, voice high and breathless.

Boris pulls off, and Stan sighs in relief, only to receive a slap on the thigh and a rough, “again,” before he’s drawn back in. The tip of his cock strokes the inside of the other man’s cheek as he uses his tongue to flick against every area he knows is sensitive. Stan’s impossibly hard, wonders if maybe he’s harder then he’s ever been.

“_Borya_,” he cries.

Boris draws back—spits, loud and filthy, down the length of him, and takes him in until his nose is nestled at his base. Stanley’s hips are shaking, fighting the urge to fuck desperately into the mouth and throat around him. It’s hot and it’s wet, and as Boris sets up a furious pace, Stan is pulsing, muscles contracting, mind a haze of pleasure and need.

“_Borya!”_ he squeals. “I—I can’t, I’m gonna—”

Boris tears away from him, grabbing him by the hips before unceremoniously flipping him over so that he’s face down on the mattress. He swats the back of his left thigh.

“Up,” he orders. His tone is strong, commanding, and it sends a shiver down Stan’s spine. He rises so that he’s on his hands and knees and gets a firm slap on his ass for his efforts. He groans at the sting the other man’s palm leaves behind.

“Spread yourself for me.”

Stanley doesn’t hesitate. He presses his chest to the bed so that he can reach back with both hands, pulling his cheeks apart to expose his hole. Embarrassment coils deep in his stomach—it always does whenever he’s displayed like this.

Boris rubs the pad of his thumb over his entrance, causing it to twitch, and he huffs a laugh.

“So sensitive for me, _Kolibri_.”

He presses a kiss to his right cheek, rubs harder with his thumb until the very tip of the digit dips inside of him, just barely. Stan gasps. Boris kisses him again, then spits on his hole.

It’s filthy.

It’s disgusting.

Stanley arches his back into it, desperate for more.

Boris hums his pleasure at the response, using his tongue to lick in broad strips and tiny flicks across the ridges and dips of Stan’s entrance. He replaces his thumb with his middle finger, teasing in soothing circles until he can press inwards, following with his tongue, both gently thrusting as far as they’ll go inside the tight heat of Stan’s body. He pulls back to spit again, then adds another finger, intent on spreading the other man open.

Stan’s a mess of pitiful moans and adoring sighs, and when Boris hitches his fingers _just right _those cries turn into a passion song of—

“Oh, fuck! Ah! Fuck!”

Boris draws his fingers out and gives his hole a wet kiss.

“Want me to fuck you, yeah?” He’s undoing his belt, dropping the rest of his clothes onto the floor.

Stan nods wildly.

“Please, _please, Borya_.”

He can hear the smooth glide of the dresser drawer being opened, the soft click of a cap. Then suddenly, there’s a cold drizzle where he’s still holding himself open—Boris pouring lubricant onto his waiting entrance. He plunges two fingers back inside him, thrusting hard and fast, stretching them wide, letting Stan get used to the sting. He pitches his head back, struggles to keep a grip on himself, struggles to stay quiet because he abruptly remembers that he has _neighbors, _but that effort gets tossed aside as soon as Boris decides to breach him with a third finger. Stanley wails a pitiful, warbling sound, tears springing to his eyes.

It’s not the first time he’s cried from over-stimulation. It probably won’t be the last either.

Boris kisses him everywhere he can reach; his lower back, his hands, the curve of his ass, the back of his thighs.

“Beautiful boy, so good for me,” he praises. “so, so good for me.”

He uses the rest of the lube on his hand to slick himself up before lining himself up with Stan’s entrance, caressing everywhere his lips had just kissed. And without preamble, he pushes in with one long thrust.

Stan can’t _breathe. _

He removes his hands from his cheeks so that they can grapple with the sheet underneath him. As Boris begins to move, he needs to hold on to _something_. He’s so _full_, stretched so _wide, _and it burns but it’s so _good_. Boris fucks into him languidly, hard and slow. It so much. It’s not enough. He doesn’t realize he’s begging with his face down in the bed until Boris tangles a hand in his hair, yanking his head back hard.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says. “Let me hear those sweet sounds.”

Stan squeals a litany of “faster, more, please” until Boris shoves him back down and begins pounding into him, brushing against his prostate with every other thrust. Stan is _sobbing_. Blood is rushing in his ears. His vision is white. And he cums, shooting long streaks up his stomach and along the sheets.

Boris groans his pleasure as he fucks him through his orgasm, the grip on his hips tightening, thrusts becoming uneven and more erratic. He’s close too, cock twitching inside of him, and Stan’s satiated and tired, but he still _wants_.

“Come inside me, _Borya_,” he says. “Let me feel you.”

“_Fuck_.”

It takes several more thrusts until Boris buries himself to the hilt, spilling himself inside of Stan, who thinks that if he could, he would come again just from that feeling alone.

They are quiet for several moments as Boris strokes him, up his ribs and along his back before he pulls out with a content sigh. Stan immediately rolls onto his side, and the other man follows, curling up behind him to act as the big spoon.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Stan says. “We have to clean up.”

Boris hums and kisses his shoulder.

“_Ya lyublyu tebya,” _he murmurs.

Stanley grabs his hand and presses his lips to his knuckles.

“I love you too.”


End file.
